


Show of Shadows

by Thatkindoffangirl



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Amputation, Blood, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture, Vomiting, at least talk of that, mostly a lot of talk of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 11:57:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3248807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatkindoffangirl/pseuds/Thatkindoffangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t the first time Kaz had snuck in to watch Ocelot perform. In fact, he’d been visiting the dungeons for weeks, each trip blissfully devoid of any kind of social interaction. Ocelot loved to ignore Kaz’s presence, to look the other way as Kaz limped to his favorite spot and watched him have his way with his chosen victim. Then, after the hapless person had given him what he wanted, Ocelot would silently clean everything until it sparkled and leave Kaz alone without exchanging a single word. He would even go as far as to switch the lights off behind him, just as one last reminder that Kaz was unwelcome.</p>
<p>He’d been an idiot to willingly go to such a man for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show of Shadows

The stench of bleach filled the room. It clung to Kaz's skin, burnt his nostrils, scorched his eyes red even behind his sunglasses. All around him nothing but chlorine, the smell so revolting it overpowered even death’s. Not a single thing was left of the man Kaz had just watched die. Ocelot’s lackeys had carted away his corpse; his dying place, the chair Ocelot tied his victims to, now belonged to Kaz. Every other trace of his existence—his blood, his vomit, even the stench of his urine—had been washed away with bleach. The torture chamber was the most hygienic place on mother base, more so than even the mess hall. No matter how many people bled, pissed, or died in it, Ocelot would always bleach it clean until no trace of them remained. How a man with such a keen nose as him could stand those fumes was nothing short of a mystery.

It wasn’t the first time Kaz had snuck in to watch Ocelot perform. In fact, he’d been visiting the dungeons for weeks, each trip blissfully devoid of any kind of social interaction. Ocelot loved to ignore Kaz’s presence, to look the other way as Kaz limped to his favorite spot and watched him have his way with his chosen victim. Then, after the hapless person had given him what he wanted, Ocelot would silently clean everything until it sparkled and leave Kaz alone without exchanging a single word. He would even go as far as to switch the lights off behind him, just as one last reminder that Kaz was unwelcome.

He’d been an idiot to willingly go to such a man for help.

Even in his sleepy daze, he was starting to regret this idea. Nausea had taken hold of his stomach, and his only salvation was not having enough in it to puke. All he wanted was for everything to be over and done with, quick and sudden like the extraction of a rotten tooth, yet Ocelot didn’t seem to care for his plight. He was standing in front of his desk, cleaning his tools with the slowest, most excruciating care possible. From right to left, one after the other, each of them was scrubbed with precisely calculated movements. It was an intimate ritual for him, almost religious in its nature, and like any such ritual, its interruption often wrought divine wrath. Whatever half-witted request Kaz had—Ocelot had made it very clear—he had to let him clean his _goddamn tools_ first.

It wasn’t until the last of them had been set back in the rolled-open case that Ocelot finally spoke.

“So,” he said, resolved like he hadn’t kept Kaz waiting for ages, “what’s the plan?”

The room had grown sultry with humidity, the taste of sea mixing with the stench of bleach that made the air unbreathable. Kaz's brain was foggy. His eyelids heavy. The light—not the reddish, eerie light Ocelot used during torture, but the blinding hot one he reserved for interrogations—blinded him despite his sunglasses. He had taken off his coat, hung it along with its crutch behind the chair, and yet his back was still so sweaty it stuck to the wooden backrest.

“The plan...” Kaz echoed slowly, unsure of whether he’d ever had one.

He massaged his forehead, pressing his fingers against his eyelids until stars appeared before them. When he lifted his head again, Ocelot had shifted to sit on top of the table.

“I thought you didn’t ask others for plans,” Kaz said. “I thought _you_ were the specialist.”

Beside Ocelot, the torture tools were laid clean on their pelt case, standing at attention like soldiers made of silver. Caressing the space between them, Ocelot dragged his hand across the fabric, immersed in his own thoughts. Eventually he reached for the scalpel, holding it to the light to look for blemishes he didn’t expect to find.

“I am,” he said, his legs dangling over the void beneath the table. “An _interrogation_ specialist, not a therapist.”

Kaz groaned, sinking deeper in his seat and resting his heavy head in his palm.

“There is nothing elegant about the healing process,” Ocelot continued. “No profound, hidden meaning to find behind it. Healing is long, excruciating. Little more than a chore.”

He grinned at Kaz, who sank even further into his seat. Lack of sleep made Kaz groggy, and grogginess made interacting with Ocelot a literal torture. It was too late to get control of the situation back. Had he wanted to stop Ocelot from talking, he shouldn’t have allowed him to start in the first place.

“Torture is different,” Ocelot said. “Nothing deep there either, but tons of fun to be had. The thing, Miller,” he chuckled at Kaz’s perplexed expression, “is that people are like vases: it’s fun to smash them on the floor, but who’d waste time putting the pieces back together?”  

He laughed, shrugging his own question away. His spurs were clinking rhythmically as his legs dangled below the table like an old pendulum clock counting the passing time. The sound drilled through Kaz’s temples making it impossible for him to think, and before he could manage a comeback, Ocelot spoke again.

“Show me your arm,” he said.

Kaz lifted his head in surprise. It was obvious in the long run that Ocelot was going to help him (their rocky relationship aside, even he knew the value of debts in their line of work) and yet Kaz wasn’t expecting it to go quite so smoothly. Annoying speeches were barely foreplay when it came to Ocelot, who only conceded favors to people he could get to beg for them on their knees.

Without waiting for an answer, Ocelot hopped to the floor, landing with a sharp metallic noise that made Kaz jump as he muttered words that sounded awfully similar to waste of time.

Before he could get too close, Kaz lifted his arm, stretching his hand open and spreading his fingers wide to offer a better visual. Ocelot just laughed at him.

“You don’t like it?” Kaz asked, as Ocelot slapped his wrist down and pinned it to the armrest. “It’s a pretty nice arm. Very functional. _Unique piece._ ”

Ignoring him, Ocelot kneeled in front of him and threaded his finger into the hook of Kaz’s tie, pulling and working on it until the knot came open.

“You should buy me a drink first,” Kaz said, and instead of fighting he leaned back again and allowed Ocelot to continue undisturbed.

Even with one of his hands busy holding Kaz’s wrist down, Ocelot was still able to undress him faster than Kaz could have done himself. His fingers worked on the buttons with mechanical precision, his hands as steady as ever, and after the waistcoat had come undone it didn’t take much for the shirt to follow suit, falling open on Kaz’s shoulder. Abandoning Kaz’s wrist, Ocelot’s hand traveled up to his chest, pinning the man’s back to the chair. Then, slowly, his fingers traced the contour of Kaz’s stump, his touch as delicate as a scientist’s handling a rare specimen.

The air hitting his naked skin was chillier than Kaz expected, or maybe it was due to the sweat that drenched him. The dragging sensation of leather against his stump, a part of him no one—not even Kaz himself—had recently touched, was so revolting it twisted the pit of his stomach into a knot, made his neck clench as if his tie was still around his neck, strangling him.

Every one of Ocelot’s movements made it harder for Kaz to breathe. He cleared his throat, and yet the sickness inside him grew more and more intense with each second, mounting as Ocelot’s now bare fingers caressed his scars and examined every nook and cranny of his shoulder.

Kaz’s head was so light he could have fainted. He opened his lips, unsure on what to do, wanting to beg Ocelot to stop with words he couldn’t translate into sounds: _please_ , they said, _stop, don’t, for fuck’s sake stop I—_

And then, it was over.

Ocelot backed away, slipping the glove back on his hand, puckering the leather on his fingers in complete silence as Kaz waited anxiously for him to be done.

“So?” Kaz asked eventually, still out of breath.

Kaz’s weight had shifted forward in anticipation without his notice; his legs, even his missing one, were ready to jump forward at Ocelot’s signal. His hand gripped the armrest so tightly his nails sank into the wood.

“You have a very pronounced lifeline,” Ocelot said. “The one in your head—” he tapped a finger on his temple “—not so much.”

Groaning, Kaz leaned back in the chair.

“ _Very useful_ ”, he said.

Ocelot shrugged. He climbed back to his feet, gaze fixed on Kaz. The sly smirk on his face was like that of a predator inviting his prey to attack, knowing well enough it wouldn’t dare to do so.

“There’s nothing that wound can tell, “ he said. “It was infected when they brought you here, and the surgeons had to cut more skin to make sure the arm could heal before the necrosis could spread. The scar is mostly from then. A pretty clean job, kept the mess to a minimum. Nothing done before remains there.”

Kaz clenched his fist.

“You needed that long to figure that out?” he asked.

“Of course not.” Ocelot smirked. “I already knew.”

_Of course_ , Kaz thought. _Of course._

“Remind me not to ask you for help again,” he said.

Ocelot sighed.

“Honestly,” he said, “I don’t know what you're expecting from this either.”

He closed his eyes, mouth slightly open as he weighed his words.

“Look, Miller,” he said, “it’s not uncommon for people who experience extreme forms of torture to forget about the details. It’s a natural form of protection.” He nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “The brain is too weak for reality, so it shuts it down; reality doesn’t like being ignored, so it fights back. Eventually it becomes a big mess for everyone involved.”

“I asked you to fix this,” Kaz said dryly, “not to give me a science lesson.”

“Well,” Ocelot said, “I’ve always had a thing for shock therapy. I’ll go get the stun rods and then we can—”

The bang of Kaz’s fist slamming against the armrest was enough to startle even Ocelot.

“ _Stop it_!” Kaz yelled.

Ocelot was already halfway across the room. He turned back slowly, kneeling in front of Kaz with a concerned expression that didn’t extend to his eyes.

“Why so focused on the details?” he asked. “It’s not like you can’t _imagine_ what happened.”

Kaz snorted.

“See, “Ocelot ignored him, “you _think_ you want to know, Miller, but—trust me on this—you don’t. If those guys were any good, you’re better off forgetting. If they were bad, well... it’s just another reason to be done with it.”

Kaz had often wondered whether punching Ocelot in the nose would be worth days of dealing with him bitching afterwards. This time was no exception. It was getting clearer and clearer, however, that his present predicament was nothing but his own fault. What was he doing, asking for help or— God forbid—even compassion from Ocelot?

“Forget it,” he said, bracing his hand against the armrest to haul himself back up and reach for his crutch.

He’d barely touched the handle when something hit him square in the cheek,the impact twisting his neck backward. The whole room went black; then, it started spinning on itself.

The next thing he knew, Kaz was back with his ass in the chair and his ears were ringing. He dragged himself up again and his sunglasses, skewed on his face from the hit, fell further down his nose. As he dashed to straighten them back, he found his wrist blocked by straps.

“Wha—?” he asked, but his words died in an agonizing scream.

Pain, scorching like sizzling metal on his skin, seared his arm while Ocelot’s palm pushed against his chest again, pinning him to the backrest as he struggled. Kaz’s breath was ragged. He searched for Ocelot’s eyes, confused, but caught something shining on his own tricep instead, glistening against the red of Ocelot’s gloves. A silver scalpel—one of Ocelot’s favorite tools—was set in his arm like a jewel veined with his own blood.

For a while Kaz just gaped at it, his brain buzzing with emptiness. Finally, he yelled.

“ _What are you doing, you fucking psycho?!_ ”

His voice echoed with fury. Ocelot remained calm.

“Is that what you told them?” he asked.

“ _What_?”

Kaz jerked his shoulders forward, trying to throw Ocelot off the chair even as the struggle made the scalpel sink deeper with excruciating pain. Ocelot’s hand, however, was keeping him pinned, and all his efforts were useless.

“‘What are you doing, you fucking psycho’,” Ocelot repeated. “Is that what you told them when they cut off your arm?”

Kaz clenched his teeth. Ocelot’s knee, resting between his legs, made it impossible for him to kick the man in the balls.

“Is this your idea of a joke?” he asked. “Let me go or I’m sticking those revolvers so far up your ass you’ll stop enjoying it!”

Ocelot laughed.

“People always threaten before they beg,” he said, steadying his grasp on the scalpel. “Did you beg, Miller?”

“I don’t remember!” Kaz yelled. Again he tried to slam his fist against the armrest, but the strap anchored his arm to it. “I don’t fucking remember, why do you think I came to you?”

Kaz’s face flushed red with rage. His chest heaved frantically and yet no air filled his lungs to breathe with.

“I bet you did,” Ocelot said. “I bet you did every single time they came to feed you. I bet you did it every single time they showed you pity.”

He chuckled, nudging the blade in Kaz’s wound just enough to make the pain flare up again.

Kaz swallowed the scream back in his chest, sealing his eyes and mouth shut. Ocelot’s voice was pounding inside his head. From the back of his mind, thoughts he didn’t want to think came crawling forward. He forced his eyes open again. His face was burning. He couldn’t speak.

“See, Miller,” Ocelot continued, “it’s best to give people hope. Hope that they can make it, hope that it’s not going to be as bad if they just cooperate and do what’s asked of them.” He chuckled. “It’s the same hope you have now. Do you really think I wouldn’t go so far as to cut off your other arm?”

Once again, he pressed the blade deeper into the wound, burying his face in Kaz’s hair as the man screamed in agony.

“I’m doing this for you, Kaz,” he whispered into his ear. “You wanted my help, didn’t you? What better way for you to remember than to guide you through everything again?”

With a snarl of rage Kaz jerked his head sideways to hit Ocelot’s cheek with his own, missing him by mere inches as Ocelot pulled back to face him once again. Groaning, Kaz snapped his mouth forward, neck extended to close the distance between them. Ocelot dashed out of reach and, once again, Kaz moved back, reading himself to attack the man, now laughing at him. This time, there was no attempt to headbutt or bite or even simply reach Ocelot. This time, when his head thrust forward, Kaz spat in his face.

Ocelot’s flinched back in surprise as Kaz’s saliva hit his cheekbone. He dragged his hand down his cheek, cleaning the spit without breaking eye contact with Kaz, who smirked at him from below, still bending forward. A smug grin on his face, Ocelot held his palm to the light, admiring the shining liquid on his gloves with what looked like the uttermost satisfaction. Then, he thrust his knee against Kaz’s stomach, pinning him once again as he rubbed spit all over his mouth.

“You know, Miller,” Ocelot said as if nothing had happened, shutting Kaz’s jaw closed as the man fought to free himself, “there’s no way you could just stay awake while they were cutting your arm. Do you have any idea how _painful_ that is?”

He threw his head backwards, laughing, and caught Kaz’s mouth in his hand once more just as it almost slipped from his hold. Without hesitation, Kaz threw his entire upper body against Ocelot’s grasp, making him stumble backwards as his hands flew open to regain balance. The scalpel was flung away, sliding across the floor, and Kaz was now the one laughing as Ocelot’s face twisted in outrage.

Growling, Ocelot dashed to pin Kaz once again, only to find his mouth open and waiting for him.

Kaz’s teeth sank into Ocelot’s hand, his rage pouring through the bite as if it was venom from a snake. His muscles clenched with the effort, and the pain in his wound flared up again. Screams turned into growls of rage and his heavy breathing vibrated against Ocelot’s palm as he tightened his hold. He bared his teeth in a grin of victory, and looked up expecting to see fear and dismay in Ocelot’s face, and instead found him as calm as ever.

Ocelot smiled at Kaz, his eyebrows raising in contempt, as though he were dealing with barely more than an animal. Kaz’s hold wavered. He sank his teeth deeper in Ocelot’s flesh, so tight that his whole neck stiffened. He held that position for what felt like hours, Ocelot’s face never flinching no matter how hard Kaz tightened his jaw. Then, slowly, he released his hold, backing away and letting Ocelot’s hand go free.

Ocelot smiled. He cleaned his glove on Kaz’s cheek then straightened his sunglasses back on his face. For a while, he held the frame in his hands, thinking, then he lifted it off Kaz’s nose without breaking eye contact.

Kaz clenched his jaw. His teeth buzzed with the urge to bite the glasses away from Ocelot, and yet he didn’t move.

He’d been coming to the dungeons for weeks, watching Ocelot torture the prisoners without the slightest hint of compassion on his face. He’d seen him mock, charm and threaten, and among his muddled thoughts only one realization had become increasingly clear to Kaz: torture was not a matter of power or strength; it was not a matter of pain or spit on your face, nor of petty victories or dignity. Torture was a matter of control and, as soon as he’d shown weakness, Kaz had lost all of it.

Ocelot’s eyes darted from the sunglasses to the scalpel on the floor and then back again, wondering whether the two belonged in the same place. Eventually, however, he decided to tuck the frame into the collar of his shirt and lowered himself to cup Kaz’s face, gently tucking his hair behind his ears.

“You have such pretty eyes when you’re afraid and in pain,” he said. “No one would want you to pass out during torture, waste the chance to look at you, hear you scream. You just sound so much better in pain than you do spewing out orders all day.”

Kaz’s throat was hoarse. All his emotions flooded out of him, save for the buzzing sound of emptiness that remained inside his head.

“You’re mental,” he said.

“ _Me_? It’s pretty goddamn insane to ask a sadist for a favor,” Ocelot said, laughing. “But then, so is stealing from one.”

His hands closed around Kaz’s throat, banging his head back against the chair.

“Are you so stupid,” he hissed, “to think I wouldn’t notice half my stash of morphine has gone missing? How can you remember anything when you’re too drugged to _think_?”

“Base‘s full of criminals,” Kaz panted, struggling to breathe, “and you think _I_ took it?”

Ocelot’s fingers dug into the flesh of Kaz’s throat, almost crushing it. Kaz didn’t fight back this time, focusing on keeping his face straight.

“We’ll find out soon enough.” Ocelot shrugged, freeing him again. “Withdrawal symptoms start after twelve hours, don’t they? That’s enough time for you to remember.”

Now that adrenaline had settled, and the pounding in his heart had calmed, Kaz realized how exhausted he was. His shirt, drenched with sweat, hung open on his chest, exposing the stump of his arm to the air. The fabric on his other arm, heavy with blood, was weighted down on his shoulder. All pain had drained from his body, and his mind was numb.

He closed his eyes, relaxing his head back. Images floated in front of his eyes, images he didn’t want to see yet saw every night, every time the light in his room went off and the one in his mind flipped on. Now, however, there was no one to stop it. He was too weak to fight, maybe too weak to live.

When Ocelot spoke, his voice warped in Kaz’s ears like a broken tape recorder.

“How many were there?” it asked.

Kaz watched Ocelot’s mouth moving, wondering how he could see it with his eyes shut. It was as if he was watching him from the outside, like the man wasn’t in front of him, and he could see straight through to the wall behind him.

It was a show of shadows. Moving on the wall, puppets projected by unknown hands held in front of the light at the back of Kaz’s mind. A puppet dragging another on the soil; another pinning it down, holding the figure still as it struggled like Kaz was struggling with the strap on his wrist. Then one last puppet joined them, as if one more hand had suddenly appeared.

“How many people?” Ocelot’s voice asked again.

The puppet on the ground quivered in fear. The shadows laughed.

“I don’t know,” Kaz mumbled.

Slowly, Kaz’s head straightened up, the tip of Ocelot’s fingers brushing against his cheek as they raised Kaz’s eyes to meet their owner’s.

Kaz’s throat closed at the sight. Ocelot’s eyes were blue, so blue he was sure he’d drown in them if he allowed himself to. He struggled weakly.

“How many?”

He shook him gently, and the fog in Kaz’s brain seemed to lift, if only for an instant.

“Four,” he said. “Russians.”

Kaz’s vision grew blurry again.

“What else?” Ocelot asked in a voice that sounded more soothing than usual.

“I—” Kaz mouthed.

Ocelot’s eyes were deep. His skin white. There were wrinkles on his face, a reminder of the time that had passed, for him, for _all_ of them, and yet they did nothing but enhance his features. It was no wonder Kaz could find Snake, face twisted in nostalgic anguish, staring at him so often when Ocelot wasn’t looking.

“ _Focus_ ,” Ocelot said.

Kaz took a deep breath, and the air seemed to flick a switch at the back of his mind.  

“I couldn’t understand them,” he said. “But they... they seemed to like it.”

His voice was trembling. He took another breath.

“I don’t know if they spoke English,” he said. “I tried to communicate but they just laughed at me. They kept—” he paused, straightening himself. “They mocked me, ordered me to do things I couldn’t understand, called me names I—”

His voice trailed off, and there was a long silence before he continued. Ocelot was looking at him, not moving, not talking. For once, Kaz was grateful.

“ _Krasavchik_ was their favorite,” he continued.

Ocelot’s lips twitched upward at the word but Kaz ignored him. It was easier to go on without pausing.

“I have no idea what it meant, if it even meant anything. Maybe they were just messing with me. Even the little Russian I spoke, it… _they_ never seemed to make any sense.”

Kaz squeezed his eyes shut. His throat was clenched so tightly that every word ripped through it.

“One day they just— I woke up on the floor. One of them was pinning me down and they... they injected something in my arm, before—”

He choked on his words. His brain froze. He shut his mouth, digging his nails in the armrest to stop himself from shaking.

“Anaesthetic,” Ocelot said. “I told you they wouldn’t want you to pass out too soon, _krasavchik_.”

Kaz‘s veins shrunk at the sound of the word. The leather of Ocelot’s gloves burned cold on his cheeks, or maybe it was his own face burning hot. His stomach twisted. He wanted to puke, empty his belly, his chest, his whole body into his lap.

When he opened his mouth, though, only words came out.

“They did it over and over again,” he said, his voice so feeble he wasn’t sure Ocelot could even hear it. “Injecting and then—”

“Cutting?” Ocelot finished.

Kaz nodded.

“Could you feel it?”

Kaz nodded again.

“I see.”

Ocelot hummed, thinking. He brought his hand to Kaz’s neck, then down on his shoulder.

Kaz’s body tensed under the touch, preparing to feel the leather on his stump again. But Ocelot didn’t move any further.

“Anesthetic needs to be injected directly into the nerves to work,” he said, "but nerves are not so easy to find. There are ways to make it work, tools to speed up the process and lessen the pain. But why go the complicated route when you can use trial and error? Much more entertaining, if you have time to pull it off.”

Kaz’s face twisted in disgust, but Ocelot didn’t seem to care.

“Did they have you watch?” he asked.

Kaz groaned.

“Come on, Miller,” Ocelot said, closing the space between their faces. “Did they hold your face up and force you to look? I would.”

“Goddammit, Ocelot,” Kaz grimaced. His pulse was rising again. “Is this _entertaining_ to you?”

“Yes,” Ocelot said. “Did you put up a fight?”

Kaz laughed weakly, “You can _bet_ I did.”

“How?” Ocelot asked, straightening as his face twisted in a triumphant smile. “How did you do that if you were drugged? Did they feed you enough for you to have the strength to kick back? Were you even willing to fight, or were you just hoping you’d die faster?”

“I was waiting for Snake,” Kaz growled, his teeth bared.

Ocelot chuckled.

“Did you _really_ have so much faith in him, Miller?” he asked.

“Do you,” Kaz scoffed, “ _Ocelot_?”

To Kaz’s surprise, Ocelot laughed.

“Let me be very clear, krasavchik,” he said, brushing the hair from Kaz’s eyes, “there is not enough faith in the entire world for what has been done to you. I know Russians and their torture: it’s crass, shoddy... They can get the job done if they need to get it done, but— they didn’t kidnap you to for your secrets. They did it because they thought it would lead Snake to them.” He waved his hand as if pushing the issue away.  “Idiots, if you ask me. They dug their own grave.”

Kaz was at a loss for words.

“What I mean,” Ocelot continued, “is that they weren’t smart, and they sure as hell didn’t need to be smart about your torture. They didn’t even _need_ to torture you, really. But they did." He laughed. “Of course they did. There isn’t much that part of Afghanistan can offer in terms of entertainment.”

He tapped his finger against Kaz’s chest, leaning forward to look into Kaz’s eyes.

“ _Except for you._ ”

Kaz’s blood was boiling. He clenched his fist, sinking his nails in his own skin to stop himself from attacking Ocelot again.

Satisfied with Kaz’s compliance, Ocelot moved his hand to his chin, pulling Kaz’s face towards him.

“You wanted to die, Miller,” he said, “and you still do.”

The pain in Kaz’s arm was now just a distant throbbing, and the sensation spread through the rest of his body. The light was blinding him again, the whole room floating in white.

“That’s bullshit,” he hissed.

“You think you’re mad at them for torturing you?” Ocelot asked. “You’re mad at them for not killing you. You’re mad at Snake for saving you.”

Kaz tried to answer, but Ocelot raised his voice over his.

“Do you think you’ve been coming here everyday trying to remember?” he asked. “I’ve watched you, Miller. I’ve watched your face, your hands, your posture. What use are sunglasses when your whole body is nothing short of a library?”

He let Kaz fall back against the backrest.

“You can lie to everyone else, Miller,” he said. “To Snake. To yourself. But you can’t lie to me. I don’t care for your words or those appearances you love so much. I only care for the truth I see, and do you want to know what that truth is, Miller?”

Again, Kaz opened his mouth to answer, but Ocelot interrupted.

“You never came here to remember what happened,” he said, raising his voice again. “You know what happened, Miller, you have no need to watch it again. You can’t even sleep without seeing it, can you? There is no need for you to come here and relive what was, the only reason you came is because you crave what wasn’t.”

The silence was absolute. Kaz’s mind raced with thoughts, tumbling one after the other like debris down a ravine. He closed his eyes, trying to catch at least one of them, but they all dissolved in his hands.

“Do you want me to kill you, Kaz?” Ocelot asked slowly.

When Kaz opened his eyes again, his whole body was shaking.

“ _And what if I do?_ ” he asked.

“I’m sorry, Kaz,” Ocelot said. “You can’t die. Your life isn’t yours anymore to do with as you please.”

He cupped Kaz’s cheeks again, lowering himself to Kaz’s height.

“Snake won’t allow you to die,” Ocelot said. “He didn’t allow it then, and he won’t allow it now. He’d go to hell itself to bring you back, and if that failed he’d just bring hell back to Earth. There is no length he won’t go to make sure you’ll stay by his side, no length he won’t go to keep you alive until he stops needing you. Until he stops needing _any_ of us.”

It was only when his tears pooled against Ocelot’s hands that Kaz realized he was crying. He tried to push Ocelot off him, but his body wasn’t responding. He opened his mouth to curse, to damn Ocelot for even daring to help, but the words came out broken in sobs.

Ocelot was still holding onto his face, paralyzed, his eyes turned away from Kaz’s own. Anguish—pure, uncontrolled pain of the soul—was the only emotion able to make Ocelot uncomfortable, and soon Kaz was laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

He laughed from the bottom of his stomach. He laughed, and the tears burned his face like acid. Then he screamed, anger like never before coursing through his vein and muscles, the pain in his arm spreading to his whole body and soul.

Again, he cried. Again, he screamed. Then, he did all of them together.

And finally, he did nothing.

When his sobbing died down, the buzzing of the lights was the only sound in the room as Kaz and Ocelot both sat immobile, looking away from each other.

Ocelot’s presence, even when the man had stepped away, weighed heavily against Kaz, sizzling on his skin like electricity. Everything hurt. His arm throbbed, his eyes burned, his brain screamed. Only his heart was still.

There was a hole in his chest, a hole where his emotions had been just moments before. He tried to summon any of them: elation to make Ocelot cringe, sadness to make him squirm, anger to kick him in the knees and make him pay for doing what Kaz had asked him to do. And yet nothing was working. It was like Kaz’s heart had finally broken.

“It went on for days,” he said suddenly, before he could stop himself.

Ocelot’s eyebrows rose in acknowledgement as he turned to face Kaz. He didn’t look surprised. It was like he’d been waiting for Kaz to speak the whole time.

“They didn’t really have any plan at first, they just liked beating the shit out of me.” Kaz chuckled nervously. “They’d spend the whole day doing it, cutting my skin, breaking my bones, kicking my body... When they were satisfied they’d throw water and food on the floor to feed me if I’d ever come to again. I didn’t eat anything, not at first, but then—” He sighed. “I thought I was trained for it, but you never are. They’d give me morphine to make me more obedient, forced it down my throat with their own piss. Then, when I started craving more, they’d withhold it. I tried to fight it, but— everything was hurting, and I didn’t even know whether it was withdrawal or whatever they had done that day. My body was just...” he scoffed. “I would have rather not had one. Every day, I’d puke out the little food I managed to eat.

“When withdrawal stopped being fun, they started feeding me drugs off their hands like a dog. They made me beg for it, then thank them after I’d licked their palms clean.” His voice faltered. “After a while, I didn’t even care anymore. I think my leg was broken. I knew my arm was cut open. They’d dragged the open wounds all over the floor, pissed on them as they— both were infected. That’s when they panicked, I guess.”

Kaz sighed. It was the first pause since he’d started talking.

“They still needed me alive to drag Snake out, couldn’t allow me to go just yet. I think that’s when they decided to stop. They needed to stop the infection from spreading first, and so they got together one last time. You’re right,” he said, lifting his head to look at Ocelot, “they tried to anesthetize my arm, but wouldn’t pay attention to where they injected. I kept passing out from the pain, hoping I wouldn’t wake up again. They always brought me back.

“They forced me to watch, threatened to feed me my own limbs. I don’t even know if they really did that, I couldn’t even taste food anymore. Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t. Maybe they fed it to their dogs. There were tons out there, I could hear them barking the whole night. I couldn’t sleep. My mouth was burning, everything was. They gave me antibiotics. I tried to puke them out, but they gave me more. They didn’t touch me again. I would beg them for it, but they just laughed at me. I never knew how much they understood but… I needed someone to touch me, to feel— _real_ , in a way. My skin was burning for it to go on. Everything was healing and I... I didn’t want it to.”

His hand was now free again. He moved his other one to rub his wrist and get the blood flowing, before realizing there was no other hand anymore.

Ocelot was still looking at him, face neutral, as if the story was nothing more than gossip. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Ocelot was even having fun.

“When Snake came, I thought I was hallucinating,” Kaz said. “I _hoped_ I was. I didn’t want to be saved, I— I just wanted to die. Everything after that is a blur. I woke up in the infirmary, my wounds cleaned, my mind somewhat clearer. I thought it was over. I forced myself to think it was.” He smacked his lips together, surprised not to find them dry, “I was lying to myself, of course. I’ve been doing it ever since.”

He tried to go on, but realized he had no more words to use.

Ocelot hinged on his heels, hauling himself up again. Before he could walk away, however, Kaz’s hand closed on his shirt.

“It’s not over, isn’t it?” he asked. “It never will be.”

Ocelot didn’t answer. He took Kaz’s glasses in his hand, offering them back until, slowly, Kaz let his shirt go to grab them instead. Then, Ocelot picked his scalpel up from the floor and, without a word, went back to his table, cleaning his tools with the slowest, most excruciating care possible, all according to his ritual.

Kaz’s fist closed on his sunglasses, clenching  until he heard the metal shriek. Pain seared the wound. He hummed in pleasure as it throbbed, and slowly released his hold.

No matter how broken his heart was, his body was still there to feel.

He closed his eyes, leaning back on the chair once more. There were shadows again, dancing in front of his eyes. But this time everything was clearer. He could remember the shadows’ faces, their voices, even the foul smell of their breath on his face. They weren’t shadows anymore, but people. People who had haunted him, people who played as puppets even as they were the ones casting their own shadows.

When Ocelot turned the lights off behind himself, Kaz was still sitting on the chair, his face contorted in a smile.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Krasavchik means "pretty boy" in Russian


End file.
